Keepsakes
by Shyaway
Summary: Five women reflect on what Jack Sparrow left behind, with laughter and regret, with gratitude and dislike ... Complete.
1. Charity

This will be a series of five vignettes detailing Jack's relationships with various original female characters, hopefully in a way that is both realistic and true to his character. Other movie characters will also be putting in an appearance. Feedback, including constructive criticism, will be very happily received.

Disclaimer: everything pertaining to the movie belongs to Disney.

* * *

Charity remembered the lad. He'd been brash and cocksure and swaggering like a thousand other sailors she'd known, but his eyes - now they stuck in your mind.

Her own ample charms had caught his attention. Those and her low price. In her adopted home of Singapore, there were women for every taste. From the cool flower-like courtesans whose rich lovers treated them better than they did their own wives, as long as their mistresses' bloom lasted, to jolly, desperate Charity, who would take whatever she was offered, there were women to be bought whatever your budget.

One night, many years ago now, she reflects, as she walked the streets, as she had done many times before and since, the boy had requested the pleasure of her company.

Out for what he could get, of course, just like they all were. Just like she was. So she was surprised when the boy insisted on taking her back to his room. Well, if he wanted to be gallant, she'd not be the one to stop him. She returned to his inn with him, where he'd bought the drinks and introduced her in a vague sort of way to his friend, a handsome man who looked much more respectable than the youth. Charity, perched on the lad's lap, suggested that he might like a turn too. The man shook his head no. The boy laughed and said, "William, you old woman, your wife will never find out."

William would not be drawn, so Charity contented herself with a single client and a comfortable bed.

---

Later, her fee earned (coin well spent, she flattered herself), her eye fell again on the inking she had noticed earlier. Many of the sailors who had hired her had them. She always liked them, appreciating the stories behind them. One fellow had had a different picture for every country he'd visited. The best had been a big one of a tiger's head, for the time he had saved a shipmate from a mauling in India. There were some real bores as well, of course, but even so there were enough interesting tales to be heard to make it worth her while to ask about them.

"What's that?"

"It's a sparrow."

"Looks sore," she said, letting her hand wander over it. Maybe she could get him to pay for another shag.

"Haven't had it long."

She continued her attentions to the half-healed tattoo with her mouth. He watched her with interest. "Why'd you get a sparrow?"

"It's my name," he said, caressing her shoulder. Success, Charity thought. Tell him he has to pay twice now, or after? "Jack Sparrow."

That had been said with pride. "Well, Jack Sparrow," she said, moving up again to kiss him on the mouth, "what do you say to another tumble with your little Charity?"

The corner of the pretty mouth quirked up lasciviously. "Not so little," he leered. "It would be my pleasure, missy."

---

"What the bloody hell do you mean, you'll only pay me for one of them?!"

"I mean, Miss Charity, that I spent the rest of my money downstairs on that wine that you so freely partook of," Jack said, buttoning up his breeches. "And since you didn't inform me of the extra charge, I assumed that you were ever so kindly giving me two for the price of one -"

"You arrogant bastard!"

Jack blanched as she looked around for something to throw. Nothing came to hand so instead she yanked on her shift. Being unclothed left her at a decided disadvantage in disputes with customers. The current troublesome client was pulling on his boots and looking round for his shirt. Any minute now he would be gone.

"Are you sure you don't have the money?"

"As I said, I can pay what we agreed in the first place." A dig in his pockets produced the required coin. Charity snatched it out of his hand and demanded that he turned his pockets out. Eyebrows raised, he did so. Nothing of interest was revealed.

"Damn it."

"Now do you believe me?"

She thought of what she could have earned that night from myriad men if only she hadn't been charmed by those dark eyes. That was why she'd given up a whole night to the stripling, wasn't it? Ridiculous. She should without question have known better.

"Damn you."

"There's no call for that. Look, lass, if it means that much to you, I'll go and borrow the money from William."

"No!" She dashed to the door to block his exit, though the only move he had made was to pick his shirt up. If she let him out of her sight he would certainly not come back.

He eyed her warily. "Don't trust me, eh?" he said finally. "I don't suppose you meet many you can trust in your line of work. How's this then: you come with me. We'll get the loan together. Savvy?"

She considered the offer. Quite likely he would make a run for it as soon as they left the room. On the other hand, this could be the only way to get her money. None of the sots in the inn would help her recover her due.

Did the man William have the means to pay her either? Suddenly, with absolute clarity, she remembered that before they'd gone upstairs he himself had run out of cash and it had been Jack who'd stumped up for his last round. With the money that should have been spent on her. So no joy there then.

He extended his right hand, whether to escort her out of the room or to shake on a deal that they had not yet made, she wasn't sure. Simmering with defeat, she looked down at his outstretched arm. The sparrow again caught her eye.

"Give me one of those." The hand was withdrawn and his black eyebrows furrowed. "Give me one of those! Those - thingummies that sailors have. Like your sparrow."

His mouth opened in a silent 'oh'. "And that's what you want as payment?" Probably couldn't believe he was getting off so lightly.

No, she wanted gold. But if there was no gold to be had she would, as ever, take whatever she could get.

He could just have gathered the rest of his clothes and run. Charity was quite impressed that he did not. Somewhere, she can't now remember where - if she had ever known, the lad had spent a great deal of money on drink that night, and he had been generous about sharing it - needle and ink had been found. She did remember him asking what and where, and his look of curiosity when she'd told him she wanted a lamb.

"Repentant sinner, eh?"

"No, it's my name. Charity Lamb. Sounds like a bleeding saint's name, don't it. It was me mother who was the religious one, may she rot in hell ..."

She remembered him rolling his eyes impatiently as he set to work on her shoulder. Bloody hell, but she would not have thought that the prick of a needle could hurt so much.

After it was done, and she was twisting her head around to see the results, he had quietly and swiftly left.

Her clients liked her new adornment. So did she. It made up in a small way for that dark-as-sin boy having taken with him the coin for the first time, too.

---

Jack was reminded of her just the other day when the Black Pearl's crew was looting a merchant ship. The name of the fattest man aboard was Anthony Lamb, who had had with him far more barrels of rum than any civilian could drink. He'd been happy to share them with Jack, too, once Jack had grown bored of his protestations and offered to remove some of his spare flesh. As threats went, it wasn't a very serious one, Jack thought; Lamb could easily have done without some of those rolls, but he elected to hand over the rum instead.

That evening, as he opened one of the casks, the lettering on the side - LAMB - stirred something in his memory. Lamb, lamb ... something that had happened in Singapore ... Ah yes, the whore who had wanted a lamb tattoo. What had her name been? Something virtuous. Or was it something biblical? No, that had been Judith, the silly lass who'd laced her corset up too tight. It had been a pleasure helping her off with it.

To be sure, they were nice girls in Singapore. He knew of none so obliging. Except in Tortuga. And he had heard from some Dutch sailors, fresh from the Old World, that Amsterdam was just as ... welcoming ... as anywhere in the Caribbean.

No, he thought, taking a sip of rum. They would change their minds when they sampled the delights of Tortuga.


	2. Juanita

Disclaimer: Everything pertaining to the movie belongs to Disney.

Feedback, as always, is much appreciated.

* * *

Juanita could not forget him. In her heart she did not want to forget him, though she knew that for convenience's sake it would be better to. It would be best in fact if she had never met him.

It had happened shortly after her husband had died. Poor Miguel. It had been a shock when the other fishermen brought his body home; she had cried and swooned and the days afterwards passed in a dark blur. The funeral left her with hazy recollections of people pressing around her offering condolences, solace, an arm to escort her home, anything she might need. It was exhausting.

Juanita accepted the escort home and then, having persuaded her well-wishers that yes, she would be all right and they could leave her alone, looked around at all the paraphernalia that needed to be sorted out. Some things would be sold, some things would be returned to her husband's family, and some things she would take with her when she went back to her family home inland, to start the search for a new husband.

She and Miguel had never had very much while he was alive. Now that he was gone everything seemed to have multiplied, as if to take up the space that he had left. Sorting through it all seemed a hopeless task. The very thought tired her. She could have accepted the well-wishers' offer of help, she supposed; but their wearisome fussing would have made the job even more of a burden than it already was.

And when it was done, she would have nothing to look forward to from her family except more solicitous enquiries about her health that would give way to expectations of help around the farm and disingenuous questions as to whether she thought this young man had good prospects, or if a new arrival was more handsome than the local men. As little as she felt inclined to this, she knew that there was really no choice. She couldn't stay where she was. There was no work open to women in that town that would enable her to support herself. No reputable work, anyway. The only alternative was too distasteful to think about. It was sinful. It was certainly not for her. Still, all that she had to look forward to was being a dependent widowed daughter at home, and having been mistress of her own home, small as it was, that was not a pleasing prospect.

Unless she married again. She put a hand over her mouth and tried to quell a sob. No, no, it was too soon. She had no mind to exchange her widow's weeds for another wedding dress.

With a heavy heart, Juanita picked up a dishcloth and folded it. It was a start.

---

After that feeble beginning, Juanita made good headway. The cleaning became an end in itself. Thoughts of a dismal present and a cheerless future were briefly subjugated by a fierce desire to ease the pain of Miguel's absence by removing the reminders of his lost presence. Every time she opened a drawer she found something else that had been his, or that he had given her, or something that in some way held a memory of him. She came to resent the stabbing, shooting pain these mementoes caused and averted her face as she dropped them into the waiting boxes and bags.

Finally it was done. All that was left was the furniture, which she was to leave with the house for her father-in-law to deal with, and the essentials that she would need until the cart from the farm arrived to take her home. That would be in four days. She would need another box for those things. One of the market traders who had been friendly with Miguel had supplied her with crates. She would fetch the extra one from him. It was market day, and getting late in the afternoon, so for want of anything better to do she set off immediately.

The market traders were winding down their business for the day. As she drew near the fruit stall, Juanita realised that the man attending it was not her benefactor Fernando, nor anyone else she recognised. He was tall and blond with skin reddened by the sun. He nodded to her as she halted. She smiled in return and explained that she was a friend of Fernando's, that he had said she could use his crates for packing her belongings, and that she had come to get another one.

Throughout her brief explanation, the man stared at her blankly. When she stopped talking his expression became akin to panic.

"Do you understand me?" Juanita asked. Perhaps the last few solitary days spent thinking about the dead had left her unable to communicate with the living. She might have become an otherworldly being herself, able to speak with ghosts, no longer barred from being with her husband.

Or perhaps the man was a halfwit.

He seemed to be fumbling for the right response. "English," he said eventually.

A halfwit, then. Fernando must be out of his wits as well to leave this great oafish monoglot in charge of his stall. "Where – is – Fernando?" she asked, enunciating her words.

He had no answer. They stared at each other helplessly.

Juanita looked around, spied an empty crate of a size that she could manage lying by the stall, and decided to take the bold approach. She darted to the crate and tried to seize it before the man could stop her. He grabbed the other end with a scowl. She pulled. He hung on. His strength was much superior to hers. It occurred to her how ridiculous they must look, tugging the box to and fro between them.

A shadow fell over the crate.

"Is there a problem here?" an English-accented male voice asked. Not another one, Juanita thought, turning to look at the new arrival. The sun was getting low in the sky; she squinted into the sunlight.

"Is this man _bothering_ you, senorita?" the newcomer inquired. Realising that here was a possible translator, maybe even a champion, Juanita stood up so that the sun was no longer in her eyes and she didn't have to screw up her face unattractively. She might be able to appeal to his sense of chivalry.

"The stall owner and I have an arrangement…" She explained it all again. Her supporter nodded and addressed himself to the blond man. From his tone, Juanita gathered that he had said to give the lady the box or else, and added some dark insinuations about the man's parentage. This diatribe was accompanied by much unnecessary hand-waving. Then he made a move to draw his sword. At that the crate was surrendered.

"Thank you, senor," she said, for the first time looking her new friend in the eyes and noticing that they were outlined with – kohl? How odd.

"Captain Jack Sparrow," he announced with relish.

"Thank you, Captain."

He smiled, warm gold glinting. If she had lived more in the world she would have recognised that smile as predatory, but she hadn't, and for a moment the noisy, dirty marketplace melted away as he said, "My pleasure, senorita."

Consciousness of her surroundings came rushing back. "Senora," she corrected, tasting ashes and dust, aware again of the wasteland in her heart. "Juanita Moreno."

He looked her over, no doubt taking in her dress of mourning and the way her face had fallen at being addressed as an unmarried woman. He cast a glance at her hard-won crate. "That's quite a weight for a lass to handle. Would you like a hand?"

She opened her mouth to demur. She wanted to be alone to rest.

"It's no trouble, really."

The last remnants of the energy stoked by her cleaning fervour and the fuss over the crate left her. She was so weary and it _would_ be nice to be helped.

She accepted.

---

They walked to her house at a leisurely pace. Under happier circumstances it would have been pleasant. It was a warm day and Captain Sparrow was good company. He did most of the talking, waxing poetic about the ship of which he had been captain for only two months. La Perla Negra. The Black Pearl.

"Dark, beautiful, powerful. This girl could sail round the world and then take on a whole fleet, easy. And she's fast. If that fleet were too much for her, she could turn and outrun 'em all. There's never been a ship like her. Never."

He was vague when she asked how he had become captain. "The sea gave her to me." Juanita supposed that that was an English idiom that didn't translate well.

She would rather not have heard about nautical matters – all that she needed to know of the sea was that it had sent her husband back dead – but she liked listening to his voice and having someone talk to her about something other than death.

They reached her house. Captain Sparrow brought the crate inside. He looked round at all the packing cases and glanced at her in silent query.

"I'm going back to my parents' farm inland," she stated.

Carefully, he said, "You are in mourning for –"

"My husband." She took a deep breath. This was the first time she had related it to a stranger. "He was a fisherman. Twelve days ago while he was out at sea there was an accident – a freak wave – it swept him overboard and he must have hit his head – the others got him back on board – but –" Her voice trembled and tears started to fall. Not _again_, a part of her mind thought hazily.

Captain Sparrow squeezed her shoulder gently. She found he was holding a flask to her lips. She swallowed. Rum. Rum, present at parties, weddings, funerals, a sweet salve for every pain. He took the flask away. He tilted his head towards her quizzically – he was going to ask if she would be all right – and then his mouth was on hers.

It took her an alarmingly long time to gather her thoughts. "What do you think you're doing!" she exclaimed, pushing him away.

"No harm meant, lass …"

He was such a picture of wide-eyed contrition that her indignation faded away, leaving her feeling more despondent than ever. She had been just as surprised when Miguel had kissed her for the first time.

Quietly, she thanked him for his help. He correctly took that as his cue to leave and bade her farewell; but, as he got to the door, she heard herself issuing an absurd invitation to stay for dinner.

---

It was because of that kiss. That touch, an intimacy that had previously been shared only with her husband, had left her wanting to stave off the loneliness.

All that she could provide for dinner was bread and cold meat. Juanita began to regret her rash invitation. She shouldn't have offered her guest dinner when there was barely any dinner to be had. Embarrassed, she apologised for it to Captain Sparrow, who just insisted that she call him Jack and said that he was glad of fresh food because they didn't get much of it out at sea.

That was precisely the subject she wished to avoid. She looked down at the tabletop. The honey-coloured wood had been worn silky-smooth. She lifted her head to see that he was studying her intently. "What do you know about Cortez?" he asked abruptly.

"Hernando Cortez?" Juanita could think of no one else by that name.

"The conquistador, aye."

She considered the peculiar question. "Cortez did great work for Spain," she said. "He explored the Americas and found fabulous riches."

"What kind of riches?"

"Gold. Statues and jewellery and – why are you asking this?"

"I just want to know more about one of your countrymen, love." He leaned back in his chair and smiled lazily. There was that gold glint again. "More about your heritage, as it were. This treasure. Would it be Aztec?"

Juanita assented, still puzzled by the turn the conversation had taken.

"And your Cortez took it by force."

"Some of it, but –"

"Did you ever hear of the Aztecs trying to buy him off?"

"No." Juanita paused. There was only one story about Cortez that she knew in any detail. "They welcomed the Spanish, honoured them, gave them gifts. The Aztec emperor made them guests in his city. Cortez and his men marvelled at the emperor's riches, and for a while they were happy to stay there. But soon they realised that their hosts were not as peaceable as they seemed. The Aztecs' heathen gods demanded human sacrifice. The priests cut out the living hearts of their victims and called it divine will. When they learned this, the Spanish became afraid that their hosts were planning to use them as sacrifices and that their hospitality was like the kindness a farmer shows to a pig in fattening it up for slaughter.

"They decided to escape. Knowing that the emperor would not allow them to leave, they chose to go at the dead of night, carrying the gifts they had been given with them. They were spotted, and quickly surrounded. The Aztecs slaughtered more than a thousand Spaniards that night, which came to be known as the night of tears."

Jack mulled it over. "Bloodthirsty gods," he said, not really addressing her.

Juanita did not want to think about death and destruction any more than she wanted to think about the sea. She got up to clear the plates away. Jack must have perceived what she was feeling, because he got up with her and, murmuring some words of comfort, took her into his arms again. This time she let him hold her.

"Not so bad, is it, darling?"

"Not bad …" She let out a shuddering breath. Jack stroked her hair and touched his lips to her temple. She pressed her face against his chest. He moved his left hand in a caress to the small of her back, and then lower, but not quite far enough for her to protest. His other hand was between her shoulder blades, rubbing gently, making her weak. All the while she was revelling in the solid human warmth of him. She was dizzy with his presence. The only way for him to steady her was to kiss her – again – and again – and –

… and she knew it was wrong, knew it was a sin, but when she opened her mouth to tell him so he smoothed her hair and hushed her and she couldn't remember _why_ it was wrong, nor how they got to the bed.

---

She had finally grown accustomed to waking up alone, so when she opened her eyes it took her a moment to remember why that morning she should not be by herself.

He wasn't there. His clothes were gone. There was no sign of him downstairs. Peering through the windows, she couldn't see him outside, either. He was so thoroughly not there, in fact, that Juanita began to doubt that he had _ever_ been there.

By the time she had washed and dressed she had decided that it had been an incubus, a spirit that came to women and lay with them while they slept.

Once she had cleared the plates away she was confident that it had not even been a spirit. It had all been a dream. Grief and solitude were making her imagine strange things. After all, she could not possibly have behaved in the way she imagined she remembered behaving last night. She could not have lain with a man who was not her husband, could not have invited him into her marital bed, could not have sinned with him. It had not happened. She was not one of the loose women who flaunted themselves like Jezebel before Jehu.

There was that box, though.

I went to get it myself, Juanita thought. No one helped me – did they? No. They didn't.

All the same, when she next went into her bedroom she eyed her bed mistrustfully and decided to wash the linen to purge the presence of her remembered dream.

---

She went home a few days later. Her family flapped around her just as she had thought they would. She surprised both them and herself by being more eager to help with the chores than she had anticipated.

So it was unfortunate that she felt faint when churning the milk. She told herself that it was because she had become unused to the job.

She felt sick when she woke in the mornings. She told herself that it was the different meals, that she had become unused to eating anyone's cooking other than her own.

When her monthly blood didn't come, she told herself that she had miscounted, and waited another week. Then another one. All the while she told herself that it had only been a dream conjured up by her grief and loneliness. It couldn't possibly follow her here. She couldn't have done such a thing.

At length, when she still failed to bleed, she was forced to the knowledge that she had and that the consequences – of a kind that no dream could have – were yet to come. It could have been an incubus, that evil spirit that soiled women's chastity while they slept. But … he had been too tangible, too solid, for that. He had been earthy, not ethereal. Whatever he had been, she had not refused him.

Hand pressed against her still-flat stomach, she knew that there would be incontrovertible proof of her sin. No one else would realise it. Only she was aware that her last blood began a few days after Miguel's death. That was known only to her and to God.

She must confess. She must repent, which God had to know she already did, do her penance, and receive absolution. For that she had to confess to a priest. She had to tell someone.

She could not bear the thought of making her confession to the padre in the village, the old man to whom she had confessed as a little girl when she had disobeyed her mother, so she went further afield. Hoping to be forgiven this weakness, she went to a parish where the priest was unknown to her. He was not really surprised to hear a young woman confess to fornication.

Juanita went away relieved of that sin, but her conscience was still troubled by the knowledge that from then on, every confession of her sins would include lying by omission.

---

Jack had liked the girl, he really had. He'd hated leaving so abruptly like that. It was just that the Black Pearl had been calling to him and he had been away from her long enough as it was.

He got back to the ship at first light. He bumped into William almost at once. Jack hoped he had been to bed – the man had a pronounced protective streak in him and it was a distinct possibility that he had stayed up all night watching for his absent captain. At times Jack wished that the younger William Turner was with them so that Bootstrap could mollycoddle his real son rather than Jack.

"Where the hell have you been? Everyone else who went out provisioning came back hours ago. I was ready to send out a search party!"

"Is that any way to talk to your captain?"

"I knew he'd turn up sooner or later," Barbossa interjected. "Did ye get what I asked for, cap'n?"

"They didn't have any apples," Jack said blithely. "No bananas, either. There's no fruit to be had anywhere on the island."

Barbossa looked at him in that suspicious, narrow-eyed way that Jack was coming to know quite well, and sighed.

William sighed too. "What was this one like?"

Jack grinned. "A pretty Spanish minx by the name of Juanita. She needed a helping hand … or two. Lovely girl."

"Bring her with us," William suggested.

"Pearl wouldn't like that."

Barbossa rolled his eyes and walked off to attend to the casting off. William gave Jack a long, hard look. "You could come back and visit."

Jack just looked at him. Why ever would he want to do that? He had had his fun with the girl and given her a bit of a diversion. There was no reason to go back.

If he had understood at the time how she had felt, he would have been kinder to her. Bereavement had been foreign to him then. He had had no conception of what it would be like to lose what one loved most.

After he learned, he remembered the girl and hoped that she had forgiven him.


	3. Louise

Disclaimer: Everything pertaining to the movie belongs to Disney. Feedback, including constructive criticism, will be much appreciated.

Mab, I'm not sure whether you had such a gloomy complication as this in mind, but I hope that it meets with your approval!

* * *

Louise had much to thank him for. Every time she remembered how much he had improved her life, she thanked the Lord and blessed the day that she had met – him. She wished that she had asked his name.

The encounter had in fact taken place in the evening. She had been serving drinks in a tavern. That was not her preferred source of income, especially when one considered the less than stellar reputation of that particular drinking establishment; she had gone to the town with hopes of finding work as a seamstress, which indeed she had, but not enough. The sewing work that she could get did not earn her enough to live on, so at length she reluctantly took employment in a tavern. It was owned by a man about whom the kindest thing she could say was that he was not _quite_ the laziest sluggard in Saint Malo.

She had very quickly realised that there was much more to be earned from the tavern's patrons that tips for serving drinks. The typically-inebriated clientele were easily pleased by any passably pretty face. It wasn't long before one of them propositioned her. Louise refused his advances. The man offered her money. Remembering that she had barely enough to pay that month's rent, Louise's principles had been shaken, but mindful of her chastity and her immortal soul, she again declined. The man went away.

The next month she found she could not pay her rent. Panic-stricken by the thought of homelessness, she gave way to the next drunk to offer payment in exchange for getting his hands up her skirt. That didn't yield enough for the rent. Doing it again did.

So it went on. Sewing work was hard to come by and she could not always make ends meet with her barmaid wages. When that happened she always had recourse to the lust and purses of the tavern customers. Just to enable her to pay for her next meal.

Whore was a word that she preferred not to say to herself.

---

As it happened, she was in reasonably good funds when she met him. If she had been looking for a benefactor, the arrival of the flamboyantly-dressed stranger would have attracted her interest straightaway. A man attired so extravagantly would likely be free with his money. This impression of him grew stronger when, approaching the bar, he illustrated his request for beer by fluttering his fingers as if he were bestowing largesse.

Louise filled a tankard and set it down before him. He produced a coin from somewhere about his person with a magician's flourish, his expression remaining serious, even sad. It was not unusual for there to be depressed patrons. Every night men came in to drown sorrows of one kind or another, and they frequently ended up relating their troubles in excruciating detail to Louise, or indeed anyone else who would listen. Her usual prurient curiosity was soon sated. She had no particular desire to learn what ailed this one.

To her surprise, he didn't want to talk. He sat at the bar and sipped at his drink grave-faced. The tavern was quiet that evening, so Louise occupied herself by ferreting out a broom and sweeping the floor. That quickly grew boring. She ceased her activity and put the broom back. The innkeeper wouldn't notice whether or not the floor was clean, anyway.

No one seemed to require refills. The few customers were nursing their drinks in keeping with the general air of sullen despondency that the stranger's arrival had only exacerbated. Louise drummed her fingers on the well-worn counter. The stranger glanced at her. Their eyes met briefly and she noticed how deeply-tanned he was. A sailor, she decided, judging by his rolling stride, who had spent much time in tropical climes.

Seamen often had interesting stories to tell, and even yet another claim to have seen a mermaid would be better than this interminable silence. "What brings you to Saint Malo?" she asked. "Business or pleasure?"

He made a wry half-smile into his tankard. "Not exactly the former and certainly not the latter." His speech revealed an English accent. "As a matter of fact your fine town is not my destination. I'm just passing through."

"My loss," she said reflexively, having learned that a little trite charm could be a useful thing. "Well, where are you going and what takes you there? Are you going north across the Channel or west into the Atlantic?"

"I'm about to brave the bone-chilling stretch of water that is the Channel."

"So you're going home."

"You could put it like that."

How cryptic, Louise thought. The man's roundabout answers were much more engaging than the leaden silence that she had had to endure so far that evening, so she pressed on. "I'll wager you're coming back from somewhere hot and faraway."

"Aye, and I'm going somewhere cold and rainy."

"England?" she prodded.

"Mmm."

"I see." She pondered. Sailors were usually glad to go home after a long absence, but this man looked anything but cheerful. Slouching over the counter, mug in hand, there was a tautness about him that suggested he was subject to an unaccustomed strain. The dark circles around his eyes bore testament to the lack of sleep – or was that smudged kohl? It was hard to tell in the flickering candlelight. Whichever it was, he did look bone-weary.

Perhaps he was going home to his wife. He might have stayed away so long that he expected her to be angry instead of pleased to see him. "Are you going to see a woman?"

"That's it," he said, his words more slurred than one beer could account for. "I'm goin' to fin' a lady called Mrs Bootstrap."

What peculiar names the English had. "I expect she's waiting for you."

The change in his expression was almost imperceptible, but she saw a cloud settle on his face. "Not for me."

Louise decided that she didn't want to hear any particulars. She had a feeling that there would be no joy in the tale of this Bootstrap woman. The man's gloom was contagious enough as it was. She had started out the night by being bored; she didn't want to end it with a bout of melancholia. She racked her brains for a happier topic. Shameless flattery should work.

"I bet you're the captain of a huge ship, with lots of brave men under your command."

His smile was sardonic. "You'd think that, wouldn't you."

Louise sensed she'd blundered. His ironic expression twisted into a grimace and he took another swallow of beer, then set the empty tankard down regretfully. "Let me get you another," Louise offered, trying to make amends for having made a faux pas that she didn't understand. "On the house," she added. There were advantages to having such a neglectful employer. One was that she could give drinks away with impunity, and he would never notice. The man accepted and drank it more quickly than he had the first. He still looked as though he'd lost his last friend in the world.

Instinctively, Louise reached out and squeezed his hand. It was hot to the touch, and calloused and scarred like a peasant's, yet somehow as elegant as an aristocrat's. She spent a moment tracing the veins and bones with her own work-roughened thumb. What he really needed was human contact, so to speak, and she had a feeling that providing it could be quite pleasant - especially if her initial impression that he would be generous with his money was correct. True, she normally did it only when money was more than usually tight, but there was no harm in earning a little extra at other times as well, was there? She caught the eye of the beefy lad employed with the hope of keeping brawls to a minimum, something their boss would hardly be bothered to do himself, and gave him a conspiratorial wink. He responded by grinning salaciously, nodded, and moved over to take charge of the bar. Louise turned her attention back to the dark-eyed stranger, whose hand she still held. She stroked his palm.

"You need someone to take your mind off your troubles," she said. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he recognised the line for the solicitation it was. Probably it was one that he had heard many times in the past. No matter. He accepted the invitation.

---

Louise was constantly astonished by what men would pay for. Squashed between him and the wall in the dingy alley, listening to his breathing slowing, she was just thankful that he hadn't hurt her.

He planted a final kiss on her neck. "Thank you," he said.

She nodded. She was still never sure what to say to them afterwards. There was one thing that always had to be said, though; she requested her fee.

He started feeling through his pockets with an expression of much deeper concentration than seemed to be required. As one pocket after another left him empty-handed, Louise felt her stomach begin to knot.

"Aha." He pulled out some gold – but it was jewellery, not coin. "Oh." He did some more delving. Annoyed, she stepped closer, ready to search him herself, and gasped as he pulled out a second piece of jewellery. There was just enough light from the tavern kitchen window for her to make the items out. They were both necklaces. The first was a light, gold chain with a small pendant; the second was a rope of large red jewels – rubies, she supposed, never having seen any before. It was old-fashioned but undoubtedly worth a fortune.

He passed the smaller one to her, but hesitated just before placing it in her hand. The pendant glittered in the faint light. Louise caught sight of the pearls set into the gold.

He withdrew his arm and looked between the two necklaces, then met her eyes. "Which one do you want?"

Louise could not believe her ears. Had this man _really_ just offered her her pick of them? Why was he finding the decision so difficult? Obviously it was in his best interests to give her the less valuable pearls, and keep the rubies … the sale of which, were it hers to sell, would secure her for life. Of course she wanted the rubies. And yet, she didn't dare say it. She had heard of men who found it amusing to raise a whore's hopes and then dash them cruelly, and though this man didn't strike her as such a type, she was quite certain that no one prepared to give away such riches could be entirely sane. Best to avoid aggravating him.

"You choose," she said, mouth dry.

He spread his hands and looked between them again. He made another move to give her the pearls, paused, sighed, and handed her the rubies. "May you have joy of them, mademoiselle," he muttered.

---

She did. She took the necklace and ran before he could change his mind. That night was spent trying her new riches on before the mirror, pretending that she was the fine lady that they must have belonged to. She briefly entertained the fantasy that they had been made for a lady who had died of smallpox on the eve of her wedding to a rich, kind man – no, not smallpox, there was no room for disfiguring facial scars in this castle in the air. Consumption would suit better. The gentleman had been heartbroken and would remain so until one day when he would see Louise wearing the necklace and fall in love with her on the spot because she reminded him of his lost love, and marry her, and they would live happily ever after.

That of course was absurd. She would be much better off selling the necklace to someone who could break it up and quietly distribute the jewels for a profit, and as soon as the sun was up she did just that. She would indeed have joy of the proceeds.

---

Jack woke up on the Liberty with the vague feeling that something was missing. That feeling had become very familiar since the Black Pearl had been taken away from him by Barbossa, damn him to the depths of hell, and had only intensified when he had learned that William had been damned to the depths of the oceans. He had been told by a trollop who'd sworn she'd had it from one of Barbossa's men that Bootstrap had been good as murdered simply because he had protested the mutineers' treatment of their former captain.

Poor William. Jack had known that that fundamental good nature would get him into trouble one day.

With an effort, he turned his mind away from that line of thought. There was still something missing. He counted his fingers, checked other body parts, noting as he did so that all his scars and tattoos were still present, ran his tongue around his teeth, and made sure that his hair ornaments were still affixed to his head. Everything was in its proper place.

It was chilly. They must be drawing near the Isle of Wight by now. He reached for his coat. Handling it stirred a memory, one that caused his heart to sink. He dipped his hands into each pocket in turn.

It was gone. That priceless string of rubies that he had filched from an arrogant Portuguese aristocrat in the Azores was GONE.

Had the whore robbed him? No. He couldn't deny what his mind was telling him, that he had done the ridiculous, unpiratical thing of _giving_ it to her. He had a good mind to go and get it back. Unfortunately he couldn't remember the name of the tavern, and besides, by this time she had probably sold the necklace. That was what he would have done in her place. Jack pushed away the thought that in any case it was not his ship to order back to Saint Malo.

At least he still had the pendant, the one set with the pearls. He had felt a superstitious dread at the thought of giving away a pearl; even though it was not _the_ Pearl and was not even black, it had seemed that such an act would symbolise the loss of hope. The search had not even begun. He bloody well wouldn't give up before he had even _tried_ to find her and exact his revenge on Barbossa.

First he had to go to England to find Sarah Turner and tell her why her husband had died.


	4. Eve

The idea of a whore named Eve is an allusion to a walk-on character in Sharon Penman's 'The Queen's Man' (as is her would-be swain being called Adam). Mother Whybourn was the name of a real bawd in London in the 18th century - the one in this story must be a distant cousin of hers. The play Jack refers to is 'The Successful Pyrate', written by Charles Johnson and first staged in 1713.

Thank you very much all who have reviewed. Feedback is always appreciated. :o)

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Eve had made her first conquest of the night. She'd seen off Petronella to lay claim to the nervous young man. Actually, she thought, casting a professional eye over him, he was just a lad and had likely only recently discovered the joys of the flesh. Nevertheless she thought she had seen him in the Half Moon before and despite his nerves she was sure he knew what he wanted. Looking into his blue eyes and mustering her most beguiling expression, she introduced herself.

"I'm Adam," he replied.

Eve heard that one a lot. She carried on regardless. Entwining herself around him, she asked breathily, "What would you like me to do for you, Adam?"

He opened his mouth to tell her. His gaze slid past her shoulder.

"Scarlet!"

Eve turned to look. Scarlet had just entered the room, fresh from a client and rather dishevelled. She tugged at her bodice provocatively. Suddenly Adam was out of Eve's arms, across the room, and in Scarlet's clutches, and Scarlet was hustling him up the stairs.

For a moment Eve stared after them dumbfounded, unable to believe that it had happened again. Then she screeched, "_That one was mine_!" and hared after them. She dodged whores and patrons, banged her wrist against a table, nearly overturned a lamp, and was within five feet of the stairwell when someone seized her arm. She was pulled to a halt. It was Mother Whybourn, the bawd.

"Let them go," she ordered. "You don't want to scare off our customers, do you?" She pressed Eve down into the nearest empty chair and left her to rub her wrist. The clientele, far from looking scared, had been watching avidly, hoping for a catfight. Eve glared at them. One brave enough to approach her was sent packing with her words blistering his ears. After that she was left alone to brood on her ill luck that evening. She could almost believe that her namesake's curse had been visited upon her.

Eve was not her real name. Like most of the other harlots of the Half Moon ("Tortuga's finest!" insisted Mother Whybourn) she had given herself a new, more alluring name on entering the world's oldest profession. Hers was the name of the original temptress. The women who were her sisters and rivals likewise chose names redolent with seduction. Guinevere, like Arthur's beautiful, errant wife. Elinor, after the old King's mistress. Petronella "because it sounds fancy," she explained.

And then there was Scarlet. The Half Moon's star attraction. Her pseudonym played on both her colouring and her status as perhaps the most notorious scarlet whore in Tortuga. She could have used any name that took her fancy, any name at all, and it wouldn't have mattered: her customers, both the new and the returning, would still have clamoured, "We want the redhead!" And she did have a lot of repeat business. Most of the whores had their regulars. Scarlet, to Eve's mind, had more than her fair share. Some had been lured away from the other women. Others had always been Scarlet's. There were far too many in both categories. Eve's annoyance rose in her throat till she could have choked on it. _I'm not jealous_, she repeated to herself. _I'm not jealous. I'm not –_

There was a sudden commotion at the door. Eve looked up to see what causing all the bustle. She understood as soon as she ascertained the new arrival's identity. That man could never walk into a room unnoticed. "Well, speak of the devil," she breathed. Here was the perfect way to get back at Scarlet.

Jack Sparrow, for of course it was he, was along those who were tacitly understood to be Scarlet's. The other women knew that they were not to approach her property, no matter how many of _their_ clients she appropriated for herself. One who had once borrowed one of Scarlet's regulars had paid for it with a black eye from the redhead and an upbraiding from the bawd, who could charge more for Scarlet's services than for any other. But if there were one man for whom the whores would have risked Scarlet's anger, it was Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow, as he would have it. Eve wasn't sure what he was captain _of_, but it was a whim easily humoured. Scarlet was lucky to have a lover to easy to please.

Lover was probably not quite the right word. On first arriving, Sparrow had gone to Mother Whybourn and asked for Scarlet, and being told she wasn't available, agreed to wait. Just as Scarlet would have wished him to. But while he was seated with his companions, he was appraising the girls with serious intent. Eve, who had often had to listen to Scarlet bragging about her kohl-eyed pirate, decided that the other woman was really, really fooling herself.

It was an open secret that Scarlet fancied herself in love with him. All knew her most prized possession was a piece of coral he had given her, and there was a rumour – to Mother Whybourn's dismay – that she no longer exacted payment from him. Eve had observed Scarlet taking the coral out of her pocket and pressing it against her heart. She wondered just what it was that Scarlet saw in Jack Sparrow. Well, she amended to herself, it was obvious what the woman _saw_ in him. He was the handsomest gallant ever to set foot in the Half Moon.

Apparently Guinevere thought so too. She was eyeing him, working up the resolve to brave Scarlet's displeasure. Eve leapt up to stake her claim.

" ... _Avery_, can you believe it?" Sparrow was saying to his companions while keeping a lecherous eye on Guinevere. "They even called it 'The Successful Pyrate'. Bollocks. No one had a thought to spare for Avery by the time he died. He –"

"In other words, why would anyone write about Captain Avery when they could be writing about Captain Sparrow?" interrupted the younger of the two men with him, laughing. Sparrow good-humouredly laughed too. He was prevented from responding by Eve seating herself next to him on the bench and announcing her presence by draping herself over him. He twisted around to look at her, and leered.

"Well," he said, snaking his arm around her waist, "look what I found."

Eve gave him her most winning smile, played with his shirt collar, ran her hand along his thigh. She glanced sidelong at Guinevere, who glowered back. Eve grinned all the wider. It was as easy as this, then, to steal Scarlet's glory.

Sparrow accepted her attentions with heartening enthusiasm, but he was in no hurry. He turned back to his friends and started harping about Henry Avery again. It seemed that someone in London had written a play about him detailing his exploits on Madagascar. Sparrow was evidently of the opinion that his own life story would make much better material.

He had been away from the Caribbean for a long time. No one knew for certain where he had spent those years. Eve learned from the ensuing conversation that he had been back to England ("I … made the acquaintance of the king's daughter") and to the South Seas ("rich pickings"), that he'd been to Madagascar ("not a patch on Tortuga") where he had been made king in Avery's stead, that he'd had a sojourn with the East India Company ("escaped right under the noses of seven of 'em, right after they gave me this," he said, showing Eve a brand on his right forearm. "They'll still be talking of it now") and there was mention of a place called Atlantis. Eve didn't know where that was. Nor did she care to find out. As much as Sparrow liked the sound of his own voice, she was getting tired of it, and Scarlet would be back any moment. Any other man she would have told to shut up and get on with it, but she couldn't risk losing her talkative prize.

"Come and tell me more upstairs," she urged him.

He was insultingly reluctant to be dragged away from his audience, and he carried on talking all the way up the stairs. By the time Eve got him to her room she was wondering how Scarlet put up with his narcissism.

---

So that was why Scarlet liked him.

Eve couldn't say she cared for him much more herself, though. He was watching her through slitted eyes and looking far too pleased with himself. That was supposed to be _her_ job. At least he had stopped talking.

"As I was saying, we were a mile off the coast of Hispaniola, on the Black Pearl, and there were four Spanish schooners –"

"Oh, God," Eve said involuntarily. Why couldn't he just leave?

Sparrow broke off. His expression was unfriendly. Eve cringed, waiting for the blow, the last one had knocked out a tooth, Mother Whybourn always said to NEVER make them angry, but too often she snapped at them and they answered her with their fists –

He didn't hit her. Instead he got out of bed and started dressing. Relief made her belligerent. "I bet you haven't done half those things you said."

"You'd lose your bet, then, love," Sparrow said. He had his back to her. She had to admit that it was a very nice back, scars and all. "I've done at least three quarters of them."

"Why do you want to go pirating, anyway? There're better ways to make a living. You could at least stay on land – and not wear make-up," she added.

He gave her a gilded smile. "You're the one with white paint all over your face, darling. Ceruse, isn't it? Tastes terrible."

Eve scowled. She wished he would hurry up. He was taking ages; shrugging on his waistcoat, tying his headscarf, buckling on his belt and sword, donning his hat. Finally. She was glad when he threw a shilling onto the bed and left. Really, the man was insufferable. Scarlet was welcome to him.

---

Scarlet was furious when she found out. "You –" A torrent of abuse gushed out. "You – _whore_!" she finished, and slapped Eve across the face, twice. Eve was damned if she was going to take all the blame and pointed out that Jack had been perfectly amenable to being poached. Scarlet shrieked with rage. She boxed Eve's ears.

"What did you expect? No man ever went to a brothel to be faithful!"

"But – why couldn't he have _waited_ –"

Eve just nursed her smarting face, feeling thoroughly aggrieved. She'd slept with Captain Jack Sparrow and all she'd got was a cauliflower ear from Scarlet.

The other woman's rage had subsided into resignation.

"You're going to forgive him, aren't you?" Eve said.

"I suppose so."

"He'll only do something else, you know."

"Probably," Scarlet agreed.

---

Jack had scarpered very happily, not wanting to spend a moment longer in that harpy's company. He didn't even wait for Gibbs and Michael; he met them later at the Faithful Bride. Also, he had a nagging feeling that it would be best not to run into Scarlet.

It might have been that thought that made him halt a few months later when, the next time he was in Tortuga, he found his feet carrying him in their usual haphazard unsteady way to the Half Moon. Or it might have been that he really didn't want to see that crosspatch Eve again. Whatever his main consideration was, he turned and went in the other direction to Mrs Carswell's establishment. Giselle would give him a warm welcome.


	5. Helen

Disclaimer applies as before.

Last one… As always, feedback and constructive criticism would be very much appreciated. Thank you to those who have reviewed in the past!

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Helen had harboured no romantic illusions about pirates as a child. She knew that they were thieves and murderers, just like highwaymen, and the Hampshire village where she grew up had too much experience with highway robbery to have any foolish notions about the romance of brigandry. The village lay on one of the most dangerous roads in England. Almost every day a traveller would stagger in having been set upon and robbed, and it was not uncommon for bodies to be found by the wayside. Helen knew not to walk far from the village alone. When, at fifteen, her cousin secured her a place in the city as maid to a Mrs Bettesworth and she had to travel to London by stagecoach, she fully expected the coach to be held up. But the journey passed without incident. So did the sea-crossing a few years later when the Bettesworths moved to Jamaica to keep a closer eye on their plantation. (Or so they said. The servants knew very well that it was because Mr Bettesworth could no longer fend off his creditors.) Helen's qualms about sailing through pirate-infested waters proved unfounded; at least, their ship was not attacked. 

She did not see a pirate, even during the raid on Port Royal, until the hanging that followed it. Usually she did not attend the executions, but Kitty the scullery maid had a fancy to see one of the condemned – Jack Sparrow – and wanted someone to go with her.

The hanging did not take place. Instead Captain Sparrow escaped with some help from the blacksmith. They fled out onto the parapet, and Will Turner came back with the news of the pirate's escape to his ship, and of his own engagement to Miss Swann. "Damn it," Kitty said. "She could have had the commodore – why did she have to take the one we had a chance of getting?" Helen barely heard her. She walked home in a daze, her mind overflowing with Captain Jack Sparrow, how he'd looked when he'd laughed, what a loss it would have been if he'd died, how relieved she had been when he got away.

Was that all it took, then, to overcome years of righteous condemnation of piracy and all its practitioners; fine eyes and finer thighs?

Apparently.

---

Two years later she was in the garden gathering roses for Mrs Bettesworth. It was a beautiful, still summer's day and she was taking her time, sitting on the grass beside the rose bush and checking that each flower was perfect before cutting it. There was little noise around her. Mrs Bettesworth was in the garden with some friends, but they were some way off and she could hardly hear the murmur of their voices.

With no breeze she heard the rustle of leaves quite clearly. There was a thud and a jangle, as if someone had jumped down from the vine-covered garden wall. Helen poked her head out from behind the bush to see.

She gasped. He, in all his glorious shabby splendour, _was there_, as suddenly and completely as if he had materialised out of thin air like a genie.

Hearing her gasp, he spun towards her, pulled out a pistol and aimed it at her head.

Genies, they said, were capricious creatures. She took another breath, one that sounded like a whimper.

"Quiet," the apparition warned. "I don't _want_ to shoot you, but if you start screaming murder or fire or whatever else takes your fancy, I'll have nothing to lose. Savvy?"

She jiggled her head up and down.

"Then you can just walk over there – not towards the house, the other way – I'll be on my way, and if the marines should happen to come by, you haven't seen me." He gestured her away with the pistol.

She slowly started to rise to her feet. The wavering of the weapon, indicating she was no longer in immediate danger of being shot, made her stomach heave with relief, and restored some of her fascination with the man before her. This was Captain Jack Sparrow! For two years she had assiduously followed his exploits. She had never quite worked up the nerve to ask Mr Turner how his pirate friend was, but she had surreptitiously read Mr Bettesworth's newspapers when she was supposed to be pressing his shirts, and had been rewarded by the discovery of articles about the plunderings of the Black Pearl and her captain, 'the notorious Villain, Jack Sparrow.' Well, he hadn't been so villainous as to shoot her, and he was there in the flesh, just as she'd spent the past two years wishing him to be …

"Captain Sparrow," she whispered, her voice an absurd squeak.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"You're Captain Jack Sparrow!"

"Aye. I know. Do you want me to stamp my feet and disappear into a crack in the earth never to be seen again, just because you know me name?"

"I was there that day they tried to hang you! I saw Mr Turner rescue you! I – was so glad when you escaped."

His expression softened at the outpouring of approval. "Mr Turner," he said, lowering the pistol, "assisted me on my way. Now, you have me at a disadvantage, miss, since you know my name and I haven't had the pleasure … ?"

"Helen Godwin – " She would have said more, only they both became aware of the marines shouting in the street.

"They're looking for me," he said. "Delighted to have made your acquaintance, Miss Godwin; I must be off." He tucked the pistol into his sash and turned to go.

She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You can't go that way! The mistress is entertaining guests – they'll see you. And they _will_ scream blue murder and bring the marines in."

"What's the best way out of here, then?"

"Through the house. There'll be nobody about." She paused to relish the moment. This was superb good luck; her life had intersected with her idol's, and now she was about to become a footnote – or more, please more – in the Legend of Captain Jack Sparrow. The Lay of Jack and Helen. Or something like that. "I'll show you the way." Without further ado she took his left hand in hers, entwined her right arm around his elbow, and propelled him towards the house. Delightfully, he didn't resist, though his dark eyes did swivel from side to side checking for potential traps. Helen noticed that because, instead of watching for the danger of discovery, she was staring at him. Gazing. Feasting her eyes. He didn't mind the scrutiny.

He looked much the same as he had two years ago. That had been her initial impression. But then she looked again and thought no, he was quite different, yet she couldn't say how. After some protracted staring, and clutching his arm, through which she could feel the rise and fall of his rolling gait (dear God), she decided that he was like the sea: shimmering, undulating, always the same, never the same, with a sparkle that surfaced in one place only to vanish and reappear somewhere else. (Was that sensation in the pit of her stomach seasickness?) Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. Fleetingly Helen wondered if she had taken leave of her senses and was tiptoeing through the Bettesworths' house with her arms full of roses rather than pirate. She dismissed the idea. He certainly smelled real. In fact anything less like the scent of a rose then his odour could scarcely be imagined. Sweat, smoke, and stale alcohol invaded her nostrils; and his hair looked crusty with salt. Pity there was no chance of giving him a bath.

It was an even greater pity that, having to be quiet to avoid attracting attention, she could not talk to him. Obviously Jack, being a veteran of subterfuge, understood that too, as all he'd said to her was "This is very kind of you." There had been a twinkle in his eye as he'd said it that almost made up for the lack of conversation since.

Unable to ask about his adventures, she simply stared. Was there any physical difference? Though she hadn't had a good look at his hands two years ago, she thought he now wore more rings. He was wearing a coat and hat that he hadn't had at the hanging. Neither looked new; they were both so well-worn as to be of indeterminate colour, and the coat was somewhat threadbare.

And yet, she mused as they reached the entrance hall, he did not look out of place in this house with its trappings of Port Royal high society. His portrait could sit easily enough on these walls alongside the likenesses of the lords and ladies the Bettesworths knew. With a haircut and a shave he could even pass for a noble. He had an aristocratic nose. Was there such a thing as pirate nobility?

Her shoes and his boots were thudding loudly on the tiled floor, the rustle of her skirts was suddenly far too noisy, and Jack – there was no denying it - _jangled_. Beads, belts, sword. What a racket. To their right, Helen could hear the housekeeper talking to two of the maids in the dining room. She prayed briefly, fervently, that she and her guest would not be seen, and drew back the bolts on the front door and unlocked it. Almost there –

"Helen? What are you doing?" A woman's voice. Not the housekeeper's. The mistress's. She stood at the end of the hall flanked by two other plantation owners, looking most concerned by this incursion into her home by a man who, for all his noble qualities, was clearly not one of her friends. For the second time that day Helen was rooted to the spot. How could she explain having escorted a wanted criminal through her employers' home past all their valuables – even though he hadn't stolen anything – she would lose her situation and what would she do out here thousands of miles from her family?

Jack – she might have known – had a better idea. No explanations. He made them a kind of half-bow, said something about hospitality and gratitude. Helen was thrilled to the core when he added, "And you won't mind such an illustrious personage as myself making use of your maid. I've always wanted a geisha." He seized her hand. Helen found herself being pulled roughly, energetically, out of the door. Once again she couldn't believe her luck

Out in the street they found the marines were almost upon them. "Which way inland out of the city?" Jack demanded.

"You're not going to the docks?"

"_That man's abducting my maid_!" Mrs Bettesworth screeched from her front door.

"Right!" Helen said quickly.

They sprinted down the street. Pedestrians jumped aside for the marines, clearing a path for the fugitives. The military's shouts became angrier.

"This way!" They made a sharp left onto a narrower thoroughfare, from where Helen guided them into a series of alleyways.

"Why aren't you going to the docks?" she asked again, panting.

"My ship is on the other side of the island – Saint Ann's Bay."

"That – must be – thirty miles!" Too far. She'd be in no fit state to be a geisha, if that was anything like she thought it was, by the time they got there. Already she was lagging behind Jack and it was only his firm, warm grip on her hand that was making her keep up with him, simply by pulling her along. Their pursuers were still on their trail. Helen's detour through the back streets had not put them off, for they were just as familiar with Port Royal as she was, and they remained close behind their prey.

Helen and Jack took another right turn and for the moment seemed to have left the marines behind. Ahead of them lay a wide street on the outskirts of the city. From there it was easy to get to the road inland.

A carriage stopped across the entrance of the alley, blocking their path. It was an enormous vehicle drawn by four horses.

Jack slowed down. He looked for a way around, or over, or under, but there was none, at least none that Helen could see. She was just thinking that perhaps he could hijack it when the carriage's door was flung open. The woman who looked out was Mrs Turner, Miss Swann as was. She appeared to be quite recovered from her confinement. Behind her was her husband. Helen finally understood what she had not previously thought to wonder about, the reason for Jack's being in Port Royal; he was there to visit his friends and their newborn baby. So the gossips were right – the governor's daughter and son-in-law really were in communication with pirates.

"Jack! Where have you been? We've been looking everywhere for you!" As she spoke, Mrs Turner drew him towards their conveyance, away from Helen.

_What are you doing – you can't leave me_! "Jack – wait –"

He came back, took her in his arms, and gave her the disappointment of her life. "Oh, my dear. I wish I could take you with me. Honestly. But life aboard a ship is not for a lady such as yourself."

"But - !"

"The Black Pearl brooks no rival, darling. I'm sorry." The expression in his dark eyes communicated true regret. Helen almost believed him to be sincere.

He must have seen her doubts, because he leaned down and kissed her warmly. His moustache brushed her face; his soft mouth made her giddy and languorous all at once. If it wasn't quite the manner of ending she had hoped for, then it was satisfactorily romantic.

She became aware of something hard in his pocket.

Closer inspection revealed that it actually was something hard residing in his pocket. Jack sheepishly proffered a candlestand that Helen recognised as part of an expensive set belonging to the Bettesworths. "Here. Say you retrieved it from me, or I gave it to you in tribute to your fair face."

"How did you –"

"Hurry up, Jack!" That was Mr Turner. Mrs Turner, standing with her hands on her hips, looked equally impatient, and Helen was brought abruptly back to the danger of their situation.

"I really must take my leave," Jack said, backing away. He followed Mrs Turner into the carriage.

"Goodbye," Helen whispered.

He doffed his hat to her. The carriage sped away. She watched them go until voices shouting her name reached her ears. She turned to see some marines, accompanied by a few members of the Bettesworth household, running towards her. Their manner suggested concerned for a distressed damsel rather than her imminent arrest. She was safe from repercussions, then.

She made no move towards them, just hugged her prize and watched them approach. These marines and footmen would not understand, but, once she was back among her friends, what a tale she would have to tell.

---

"Old friend?" Elizabeth asked archly as the carriage borrowed from her father bore them along the Windward Road.

"Quite a recent acquaintance, actually, but a very pleasant young lady. Where's the sprog?"

"He's at home with his nurse," Will said. "Did I just see you giving something back?"

"What, the candlestand? Didn't you notice it was imitation? I confess I couldn't tell at first glance, but once I'd picked it up I could hardly put it down again. No doubt a high-falutin' family like that call it a Parisian _guéridon_, but it was a fake made here in Jamaica. Cross my heart. No one who knew what he was about would give a good price for it, and no one else would buy it at all. The _guéridon_'s a bit out of fashion these days, innit?"

"If you say so," said Will.

"Now _these_," Jack continued, pulling out a handful of silver, "are genuine. I can't imagine why people leave their best cutlery and sugar-tongs and what-have-you lying around like that."

"Perhaps they don't expect a pirate to come along and help himself to it," Elizabeth said, but as Jack had expected, she offered no more disapproval than that. "Who was that girl, really?"

"As I said - a pleasant young lady, who provided navigating assistance … and who has impeccable taste." She had been helpful in facilitating his escape…. He looked back, almost expecting to still see her standing there. The city was out of sight.

He didn't look back again.


End file.
